The Tourist Trail by John Yunker Page B

penguin but was watching her.
    â€œThe Romans used to believe you could tell the future by studying birds,” he said. “They looked for omens, good and bad, in their flight patterns. Wars were waged based on whether or not a particular bird passed by. One might say it was an absurd religion they followed, the leaders relying on augurs to tell them what the flying gods had in store. I don’t agree. Nature is a god. And you, Angela, are its augur.”
    She didn’t know what to say and was grateful when he changed the subject. “What’re those?” he asked, pointing toward three rabbit-like creatures in the distance.
    â€œThose are mara. They’re unique to Patagonia.”
    â€œDo you count them too?”
    â€œNo. But they could certainly use an advocate because they’re endangered. They’re strictly monogamous. The ranchers used to say that if you kill one mara, you have to kill its mate as well, because it will never breed again.”
    â€œRomantic, in a ruthless sort of way.”
    â€œPenguins are also monogamous, but practical. If they lose a mate, they’ll rebound quickly. Not maras. They mourn for years, some forever.”
    â€œHow long will it take you to get over me?” he asked, a smile on his face.
    â€œWhy don’t you leave, and we’ll see?”
    He laughed so loudly the mara scattered. And she realized how long it had been since she’d made a man laugh out loud.
    â€œYou want to switch?” he asked as they stood to return to their census taking.
    Angela was pleased, if a little surprised, to see him taking an interest. And so she taught him the difference between quilambay and lyceum bushes, how to guess a penguin’s age by the dark rings in its eyes, how to spot flipper tags from twenty yards. She enjoyed watching him grunt and curse as he crawled on the dirt, straining to see into the burrows. A man of the water, he was far removed from his element, and he lumbered about like the penguins. Earlier, as they’d sat on the rocks of a dry river bed, a harmless snake had made him spill his water bottle.
    During the circles, occasionally she would notice him looking eastward, toward the ocean, even if it was hidden behind the hills. She pretended not to notice, feeling a slight ache in her chest. She wanted to read his mind, to know how he felt about her, but men were a species she’d never understood; she had not been with enough men to draw statistically valid findings.
    That evening, she took him to a spot she usually visited alone—the edge of a red cliff that looked out over the water. The wind was so loud they just sat there, sandwiches in hand, as the penguins emerged in herds from the water. She took him there because she knew what he wanted, but as he scanned the horizon she hoped there would be no ships today.
She wanted to shave his beard, see his face in full, smooth and warm and up close. Then she caught herself and turned to thoughts of nests to be counted.

Robert
    The sun was setting as Robert climbed the ladder to the roof of the harbormaster station, a one-story structure at the foot of the cruise ship pier, where Lynda sat on a folding metal chair behind an air-conditioning unit, binoculars on her lap. From the roof, Robert had a clear view of Puerto Madryn, a modest resort town lining a three-mile crescent of sand and sidewalk. At the far end of the pier was the Tern . Robert wanted it closer, but the other spaces were reserved for the 3,000-passenger ships that kept the town’s economy running. Fortunately, those ships were absent today, giving Robert and Lynda an unobstructed view.
    After they’d documented every crew member, searched the ship—again, and with dogs—they’d continued their surveillance in twelve-hour shifts. It was now day two, and Robert knew they couldn’t keep up this pace. While staring at a ship sounded simple enough, fighting boredom and sleep was hard